


The Dog's Love

by thequirkyduckling



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Drabble, F/M, I'm Bad At Tagging, Incomplete, One Lonely Soul Meets Another, POV Sandor, POV Sansa, Poesy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sandor/Sansa, The Unkiss, Underage Kissing, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7898380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequirkyduckling/pseuds/thequirkyduckling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an incomplete drabble,  takes place during the Battle Of Blackwater.</p><p>
  <i>"She shifts beneath him, boneless and mushy-eyed, languid and wormy, a kitten in heat swinging hip and cunny for a courting male.  Sandor near goes wild, jumping his mouth to her nose, biting her sharply there in reproof, her heart slacks wondering if he will take her nose with his teeth, but he reclaims her worked-over mouth, suckling her fattened lips in what she expects is a manful apology for being terse."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dog's Love

_Death._

Death is in the air, reeking of bloodied sachet and coppery cries. Sansa breathes reluctantly the wind, sipping the air like she would a sour, gilted wine, her nose stinging from the putridity of it all. 

She rushes the halls, all dress and lute-string hair. Her body seems too fleshy, too vulnerable in the night nigh with brutality and pawing violence. 

How she wishes to could change into smoke and mingle away with the smells. 

She is a nubile succulent growing in harvest, men and brutes fervent in reaping the lady fruit would acome with scythes and shrunken stomachs. Gashing their terrible teeth for her flesh. 

Her door eclipses her, casting a rare shadow below, green light awashing her chambers and glinting through the slits of the massive wooden frame curiously. 

She makes passage by, entering her room in heel-nipping hurry, barring the door with the high latch. Banging about the dark was impossible, the green inferno from afar in the harbor illuminating the bedchamber eerily. 

The whites of her sheets, the alabaster of the floor stones glowed twice-fold while the blacks of her room dimmed darker in the nefarious color. 

She shies from the window, the wildfire shedding unwanted heat too close to the wicker. Sansa found her fire, lighting the chamber’s taper, the warmer light casting the green to a haloing remission. 

She steadied herself against the fastened door, ear pressed to the hoary wood and nail. She cupped the candle flame close to the crook of her waist, chafing her cheek against the prickled grain, desperate to discern the girth of the door. 

To what thickness would keep beastly men from invading and seeking her skirts and neck? She relied on this door as much as she did the labyrinthine of the keep and the soldiers afoot and clashing. 

It would not be enough; she knew in the inky fear that kept spreading the more she touched upon it. 

She thought of hiding in the room, like a summer hare to the wiry stoat, tall ferns and tapestries her grass hollow. The candle wick puffs smoke, ashen reek to the raw scent admixed from freshly slashed bodies. The tiny smoke from her breast is waxy and chalky, proving a poultice to the stench. 

But it disturbs another within her chamber. 

He was slumbering on her bed, hidden within those blacker than black shadows. Sandor was drunk, supped into a splendor where his sobs where occult to even him. He anticipated and planned for desolation in her chamber, a place to rest and weep into her silks before arising and vanishing into the wood. 

He had his wineskin and privation from his maiden, it was all that was needed to purge his farewell and hostility.

He had rested his eyes, fattened on his hate and need, limp in his intoxication and fear. 

But when that scent trailed, that blanched balm emitting from a ball of his bane, he aroused and snarled at the bearer. 

Sansa saw the bullish shadow rise, the burly voice ripping like a squashed toad, to cut the flame. She is helpless as she reels, tallow candle tumbling from her luster, snuffing out on the floor, submerging the room into jade glistered darkness once again. 

She saw the top heavy form of a gigantic man sit up in her bed, a hand firmly wired around one of the posts to stable himself. The hand she noticed, was encased with a gauntlet, the nefarious fireglow polishing his once silvery metal, a hell fancy beryl. The very same likeness of a cat’s eye in lucent night. 

Her voice too costive to instruct a demand of who goes, heavy and thick-skulled in her throat like a plugged calf in their heifer. The tiniest sound of unease labored past like fevered urine of the sick, trickling of no accord. The auroch of a man was apparently sensitive to the sound, for he stood his full height, casting his impaired sight across the sea of dark-then-not-dark room. He poised like a bear rearing, scenting the air for a high roosted honeycomb, the bees are in her bladder.

Sansa thought of diving under her bed, perhaps distracting the man by throwing her luster at him but is frozen in place, unable to render her limbs to obey even a shiver. 

Then the husky voice broke like the excited chuff of a panther, feathers in its whiskers. "Little Bird? Balking in the shadows are we?" 

The recognition of the voice did little to midget her fear but her bravery is stoked, latched to the tiniest hope of departing this encounter unscathed. "Ser Clegane. What are you doing in my chambers?" 

Sandor was mute, approaching closer until washed visible in the lime light. He was bloody, ragged and torn, wide-eyed, pursed, clenched, and hawkish. The mottled side of his face was concealed in prism of umber and puckered red. Although only the handsome half of his face was visible, she was never more fearful of the man, his strain was near discernible, trembling and quaking like a bowed string pinched to unforetold amounts, one pluck and surely it would snap. 

She felt stupid comparing men to instruments, but his wild eyes held no other similitude than to that of a screaming fiddle, rushing sound cascading with a drop of a hammer to the drum head. He was warring music, terrifying banter chorused and fluted, whistling and banging hymn called to shear skin and split skulls. 

His white cloak swiveled out before him, suggesting that he rolled his shoulders, however subtlety he tired to hide his movement. He spoke with a clicked tongue, spearing his palate with every syllable. " We fucking lost, little bird. Not long before that cunt of a king flees and his men are butchered. But not me... I'm not burning for no fucking king." 

Sansa dug her nails into her palms, crescent-shaped pain reminding her not to shy from him for he would surely take her for being lame and skittish. "What is to be done?" It was a stupid question, for she already concluded the answer as soon as she heard the assertions in the hall from the other ladies, _sacking, raping and raiding._

Sandor cruelly laughed, a hardy chuckle like flint chipping or a beetle’s wings cracking in flight. "Do I look like a fucking prophet?" He stopped, eyes hooding with more shadow when he glanced down, "Aye, I'm no seer. But I know well enough what will happen when those stags breech the gates. That's why I'm leaving. Let me take you with me... I can protect you, return you north to your wolf brother?"

Sansa's heart squirmed to that, a scale tittering on choice. On one hand was her family, and the inescapable hope of reuniting with them but the other hand slumped heavily to the price it would cost her. He could very well be speaking truth, and serve her courtly with justice and gallantry or his promise could be serpentine, a trick to persuade her out into the open wood and never to escape his cloak again with ease. 

It was ludicrous to trust Sandor Clegane on this matter, she rather brave Stannis and his honor, than The Hounds fickle promise. 

She never before dared to leave the confines of Winterfell for she was told of what lurked beyond, people ruled by no sensibilities, no code, no desire to uphold her title. These folk could kill her no matter her name, no matter her purse, no matter her sex. All that could stop them was her savagery, her desire to fight away. She felt a dry well of that sort of power dwell inside her, a grape blood-letted to senescence. 

Her courage for such primal corruption was meek, a seedling in her blood with no root. 

If she pursued with Sandor, she feared that her dovish mortality would be spoiled, her dreams ashed to ruin. "No. Stannis will not harm me. He is an honorable man, I'm Lady Stark, surely-." 

Sandor was quick, snapping like a pike to a fluttering shine, he lacked the finesse of a perfect strike for she avoided getting her neck captured, but he diverted, gripping handfuls of her surcoat and swinging her full-tilt to the bed, and shoving her down until her legs gave out to the bed frame. She landed awkwardly on her flank, legs tangled, feet pressed to her bottom, her hands vicing her hem to her knees. 

He is roaring, voice volcanic, chaotic and onliest fury reserved just for her, as if he had a bone to pick with her. "You aren't safe with him! You're surrounded by killers. Stannis is a killer, your brother and mother are killers, I'm a killer! You won't ever be safe, not here, not with fucking Lannisters, not with the Starks! You won't make it in this world unless you sprout talons, Little Bird!" Her fear was mounting, steaming into full bloodied, heart-shitting panic when he decides to bestride her, looming above, vicious in rebuking when she tries to struggle away. 

Then he sets a dagger to her throat, and what was she to do, slit her own throat with a darting look to her right or stay still and let him have his way? 

She blues under the ghoulish light, holding her breath, hoping to pass out. Sandor notices this, her petty try to self-asphyxiation, he lets her ply her foolishness until her eyes began to fog, then he slaps her, reviving her like he would a choked babe. 

She gasps, nonplussed more than enraged. He relents the knife a fingers breadth, rolling back on his legs that mount her paunch, giving her space to collect content. _"Easy, Little Bird. "_

He was heavy still, with most of his weight on his haunches, she was firmly pinned waist-below and is reluctant to raise herself on her elbows and get closer to his armored mid-drift. 

His excitement is bulging.

He speaks mockingly, mimicking her words from before. "What is to be done? I don't think you very well can fight me off." He taps the knife on her throat softly, mulling and chewing his cheek drunkenly. 

"Why don't you tell me, Little Bird, what do you see when you look at me? An old, mangy dog, scarred and cutthroat, ugly and despicable? What is it that you chirp when I'm not around? Are you as spurious as every other fucking whelp here? Lying through your teeth, all proper, pink and prim but just as cruel and scornful as the rest of us poor fuckers? Or are you that empty vase, an object to toss and play with, shatter when it grows worn." He snorts then, eyes glinting like little black pearls, spidery hovels readying to snatch anything of fat that passes by. "Things of clay break far too easily, Little Bird. Why do I waste my time, guarding you when you'll break with a shit-for-luck wind?" 

Sandor looks indecisive above her, amalgamated with caution, as if he could not decide between fucking her or disregarding her flagrantly. Sansa in truth was terrified, and she resented the cold seeping terror that discouraged her from remembering his valor, this man's duly tested protection of her.

She was forgetting about all of his heroics and abandoning her reason to prejudice, to a preconception that he would harm simply because he was ferine and beastly. Her heart pitched, niggering and knocking about her core like a dornish squirrel. 

His scent was thick with wine and gore, his eyes dark-casted beneath a hood of blinding green wildlight, her answer spiraled in her stomach like summer fish in a tide pool, this brute of a man was frightened. 

"I speak nothing." That stayed him for a moment, his maimed face rippled in stunned confusion, perhaps even mildly aghast at such an admission from her lips. She doesn't bob her gullet, not wanting to stir the blade in his hand, she asks with a feathery hum. "Is that what you see in me? An empty ewer?"

He scowls, knife pressing her throat slightly harder but not to his own conscious accord. "What of it? I'm barking, Little Bird, just as much as you chirp those fancy words they trained." 

Her runty courage all but evaporates when she cannot think of a response, blinking hard and trying not to shift beneath him, but that was proving tiring difficult with her legs cramping up from being pressed underneath his gargantuan weight. Sandor in all his drunkiness and indelicacy detects her floundering, the bed creaks as he lifts off her waist, sitting up to leer closer to her face, knife now the only point of contact. 

Her body is crying. 

"You promised me a song? I want it now." He demands sibilant, his grey eyes poised on ire, like crushing shoal on the vanguard of a thundering seastorm. A sunless and mature color, rippling with impatience. Sansa is enraptured by them, and seeks to keep their eyes locked hesitantly, fearful of peering elsewhere and he take an offense. She tries to remember the verses of Joquil and Florian but forgets them, her lips moving to sing another hymn. 

She warbles like a scared little bird. 

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_  
_Save our sons from war, we pray._  
_Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_  
_Let them know a better day._  
_Gentle Mother, strength of women,_  
_Help our daughters through this fray._  
_Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_  
_Teach us all a kinder way._

Sandor is shadow soaked, his lanky hair sheathing his expressive brow and cheek, much like his courser’s mane did its embowed neck. 

He is whist which is often a portend to unusual calamity from a man so often brash and ribald when taking his victims, his silence was downright aberrant.

She reaches for him, reaching above his three dog sigil for his haggard face, taking the opportunity to calm him and evince her innocence, which she hopes he strives to keep intact. 

Both her hands slide to his cheeks, cupping the bowl of his chin, either flank different in weave, one smooth and stubbled, glossed skin of a man... the other brother cheek, toadish and burnt like fleshy coin and ribbed leaves. She feels wetness, it is of blood and another dampness, it is tears. 

He is weeping shyly, nescient of his own crying. _He has the eyes of a dog._

Two silk curtained sunsets, twin celestial bodies veiled in the grayest cloud, they are beautiful, strange eyes bearing down on her. He is stony in her hands, aglow with emerald thick, his shoulders spread like the grand, sloping shoulders of a bull mammoth under an arctic aurora. 

It is an impossible feeling that surges up inside her, lurching her heart and seesawing her vision, she cannot distinguish the emotion inimical or beautiful, but it is rising like a tern on a rolling surf, she powerless as her body gallops away into his arms leaving her as a hollow waif, abandoned with her fear, but stretched, bone-breaking by her beyondness and fierce search for strength. 

Her lips unite with his, and it's all her hardihood, lady-not faults.

Damnation to her plundering haziness, and damn him of his inexorable enrapture. There is an egg in her throat, incubating and hatching with little, grey fledgling talons, nested on her tongue, readying to soar if she but scream her elation. Declare her sinlessness dishonest and lay here, laired here in his gird, protected and unspooled to heaven-shattering, sullied perfection. 

His mouth is rough, like a poorly husked calm, splintered shell his nipping teeth. But his lips, his lips, are different. 

A motley of mismatched textures, coarse cilice to cured velvet pelt, she travels both quarters with no qualm, her flushed skin tiding over his spikiness, warm passion unscratchable to even his cheval de frise defense. 

He does not bugle a single sound of pleasure, he is restrained, quelching the desire to rumble his pleased return of affection. The knife is no longer prickling, he is no longer frightening not while he is in her embrace, kneading her lips, lashes brushing her brows, hands laid on her swept hair, she feels the flame sucked out from her fright, pooling to her skin in arousal, igneous blaze laying waste her thin little mind. 

She recollects his roughness, his brashness, his foulness, gripping her arms and wrists, slicing and berating her ears, down turning her eyes, but it all falls short, so very short to what is happening right now. 

She shifts beneath him, boneless and mushy-eyed, languid and wormy, a kitten in heat swinging hip and cunny for a courting male. Sandor near goes wild, jumping his mouth to her nose, biting her sharply there in reproof, her heart slacks wondering if he will take her nose with his teeth, but he reclaims her worked-over mouth, suckling her fattened lips in what she expects is an manful apology for being terse.  
Knightly men do not kiss like this, they make with a feathery brush, or staid peck, Sandor's kiss was infuriatingly, passionately, devouring her whole. She knows her eyes are rolling under her eyelids, tumbling and tossing. 

Her eyes lift, the spell broken. His eyes, they are sparkling with excitement, starry with conquer, they are a near blizzard of emotion and hypnotic colors, silver on grey celebrating.

She discovers them to be the richest shine of any steel, and if she cannot fall for the man, she falls into his eyes, heart bleeding. "I..."

The concussive clap of an explosion sounds from the Blackwater, bringing a wave of green light and ear needling roars to her chambers, the keep shakes and Sandor lifts off of her abruptly, eyes and skin bunching along his face to the traveling heat of the fire. The inferno from the harbor saturates the castle walls in direct cast of its swelter. A sheen of sweat breaks along her skin to the suddenness of immense heat. 

Sandor barks, his vocals wavy, face etched in a queer wry. "That fucking imp is going to burn down this city if he keeps launching that shit... If that fire gets past the mud gate..." His eyes are back on her, unsteady as he soaks in her disheveled visage once more, as if in the panic of the fire had made him forget what they were doing only moments prior. 

Sansa is fat lipped, collar-ripped, and horse-haired, half raised on her bed, her eyes of lapis, a blue jewel of Asshai are wandering the chamber guardedly. 

He approaches again, she is very careful not to flinch as he leans in and dabs at her lip with the hem of his blood soaked cloak. He then, brushes strands of her bangs back against her skull, cooling the sweat on her head with his metaled hand, he seems appalled that he is taking such steps to her comfort, but does so, regardless of his distaste to nurturing.  
He is unsure of how to navigate reciprocated feelings, or at the very least, attraction. He thinks of better things to waste his mind on, like how to escape King's Landing alive or where to go once he takes Rosby Road. It would better to flee with a direction in mind, a compass to needle him the right path, if he took Sansa tonight, then Winterfell would be the obvious course. 

But there are dark feelings in his heart, black fire of desire and want, deep rooted possessiveness that calls him to keep this maiden for himself. If he takes her, he knows, that she will never reunite with her family and with one look in her eye, he knows that she understands his greed for her. 

His stomach is bone-dry, clenching grave dust, yearning to soak sea water, guts twisting over a thousand hot pins, split bowels aching with long running fever... he wants her, wants her more than any creature has the right to crave something. 

But he won't, he cannot, not this night with fire in the sky, he doesn't want something forced like her song, does not want her gentleness to be her downfall like it was his own. He rips off his white cloak and drapes it over her, she clings to it, enfolding on herself, and he asks again out of foolishness and desperation, "Come with me, Little Bird. Everyone is afraid of me. I can protect you." 

He wishes he were a Knight from her songs, a placid thing with strength and staid judgement, enoble and gallant. If he could be but anything, he would be the coax and be the gentle truth that gives her the courage to go with him.  
But such things were not meant to be, he was never going to have a single hair of the man that his Little Bird trusted wholly and completely, never the rib of a man that could court her, his rude nature and his low birth status cemented this, he was rage never to be calmed, viciousness that had no end, a serpent contorted to consume its own tail. 

He was lost to the hate, the day the fire took his face. Born from the flame, crafted by his brother's ruthlessness, he was taught to survive and to survive well, with none to love and none to grieve, only taught to trust in the fear he could provoke and the gentleness he could admonish. 

Sansa is looking up at him with big, doeful eyes, cloaked in his cape, he notices the extra attention she pays to her bodice, fingers strained tight to cover her breast with his stained cloak. 

He glances away, ashamed with his laspe of steely control, his blatant overstep to his venereal appetite. It was true, that he had made attempts to seduce her, it was hard play, trying to entice a creature he couldn't pay with dragons or stags. 

He tried appealing to her naive nature at first, swanking his position and prowess in hopes of overwhelming her, but when that failed to impress and rather quiet oppositely frightened her, he begun teasing her mercilessly to vent his frustration, but that had only developed into an enamoring, a devotion to her safety and betterment, but there was little he could offer beyond his sword, for even his loyalty had been bought with sparse room to afford her. 

_He has little means to love._

He could not give her much, nothing without stain. He had not meant to meet her here, he meant to grovel here, lick his wounds and fight out the cruel incubus from his mind. 

There was fire everywhere, thick and swarming his skull, his maimed flesh wriggling with a thousand ants of memory. He had taken the song from her and he had meant to take her as well, but her warble at the precipice of his knife had rattled him, forced him to see the plight of taking something beautiful to duress, it would make it false and worthless to him.

“No…” Her voice is so very soft and so very sweet, she is staring up at him, nose scrunched in confusion, face etched in complete perplex. There was something on her mind, nattering at the spool of her terrible aspirations, threads coming loose and spilling her unequivocal thoughts into a reluctant fruition.

A nefarious weave she creates like bitter blossom, it soaks bone deep into her soul like tea.

Her voice was so very conflicted, her body so very rigid, that he knows with sudden delighted surprise, that she, if just for a very small moment, wanted to go with him.

He casts a tremulous face to her own, reddening like a babe in fever, his stomach slushing with wine cardinal, sweet fruit that taints his bowels, it takes hold his collection and kills it within pink jaws.

He is infected with silly thoughts, boys with puppy tails caught in their fists, his dreamful lusts are howling like those pups with pinched tails. He is staring at her with a braying mind, hands pulled back into unnatural contortion, a fist so twisted that his stronger fingers coil, smothering like snakes his own fingers that weaken in strain.

By any devil, let me have her, he thinks and nearly coos. For she is poised pretty and wanton. A calf with glistening, frightened eyes, sacrificial flesh with a warm throat that needs pulling by knife or tooth.

There is great need to kiss her again, less the turmoil of nothing entices him to a foul murder.

**Author's Note:**

> I might complete it one day. :) But if I do, I will probably have to up the rating. But feel free to leave suggestions.


End file.
